Chapter 1: 

                                                              That Seat by the Window

The second bell rang, sharp and indifferent, cutting through the soft murmur of the morning rain.

Outside, a gentle drizzle fell, cloaking the campus in a translucent veil. The sky was a pale, pearly gray, with low-hanging clouds that swallowed the tops of the school buildings. It wasn’t the kind of rain that demanded umbrellas—it was the quiet kind, the kind that made you feel like the world was whispering secrets you couldn’t quite hear.

Haruka Renji sat by the window, third seat from the back. That had always been his seat. It was a place that allowed him to fade quietly into the edges of things, while still keeping the world in sight. He preferred it that way.

The glass beneath his fingers was cold. Condensation clung to the corners of the window, slowly creeping like vines. Outside, students scurried into the building, uniforms damp, some sharing umbrellas, some laughing, some just running to avoid the downpour. All of it passed before his eyes like a silent film.

He didn’t speak. He rarely did.

Renji had never been one to chase attention. His thoughts often lingered too long in the past, clinging to memories that no one else seemed to remember. He wasn’t cold, exactly. Just… distant. Like a house with its lights on but the front door locked.

The classroom began to fill.

Voices swelled—chatter about homework, clubs, weather. Chairs scraped. A girl giggled too loudly in the corner. Someone near the door sneezed. The usual rhythm of school life resumed.

But Renji kept his eyes on the window.

He wasn’t waiting for anyone.

Or so he told himself.

Then—

The classroom door opened.

And everything, just for a moment, stopped.

She stepped in quietly, holding a folded umbrella and a transfer slip in hand.

Her dark hair was tied neatly, a few strands clinging softly to her cheeks from the rain. Her uniform was crisp, precise—but it was her presence that shifted the air, like someone had opened a window you didn’t know was closed.

"This is our new transfer student," the teacher announced. "Amamiya Yui. Please welcome her."

She bowed.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice gentle but sure.

Renji didn’t react—not outwardly.

But inside, his mind screamed.

That name. It was wrong. Or rather—too perfect.

Amamiya Yui.

But she had once been someone else.

Years ago. A single rainy day. A girl with a small diary tucked under her arm. She had lent him her umbrella when his had broken in the wind. She hadn't said her name then—but he’d seen it inside the umbrella.

Ame Yui.

He remembered everything. Too well.

Even the way the raindrops had hit the pavement back then.

Renji’s pencil slipped from his desk and rolled to the floor.

He didn’t pick it up.

The teacher gestured toward the empty seat beside him.

“You can take that one.”

Renji didn’t move.

Yui walked slowly, gracefully, her footsteps measured. She passed by rows of curious eyes and shallow whispers. And when she reached the seat beside him, she paused.

Not long. Just for a moment.

But long enough.

She sat down.

And didn’t look at him.

Renji stared ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, his chest tight.

It had been years. But even if she wore a different name now—even if she had forgotten everything—

He hadn’t.

She smelled faintly of petrichor and soap.

And silence fell between them—not uncomfortable, not empty. Just filled with too much history neither of them had the words for.

---

Later That Morning

The class settled into routine.

The teacher wrote on the board. Pages turned. Pens scratched.

But Renji didn't hear any of it.

He could only think about that one moment years ago—

The way she had stood in the rain, half-shielded under her small umbrella, and handed it to him without a word.

And then disappeared.

Just like that.

He still had the umbrella. Somewhere in his closet. The name written in small blue letters inside:

Ame Yui.

Now she sat beside him, going by a new name, acting like a stranger.

But her eyes…

When they met his, for the briefest second—

Something flickered.

Recognition?

Curiosity?

Regret?

He couldn’t tell.

But something told him—this wasn’t the first time their lives had crossed.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a long-forgotten string began to tremble.

---

To be continued…